Chapter XV: Part 15

This is how it happened. I went to the woodlot to forage for stove-wood, and noticing that the heavy sleet last February had broken down a number of big branches, I decided to use them. They were resting on the ground, but still connected with the trees by a few splinters. I had to climb to cut the splinters and bring the branches down. All went well until I came to a big beech, from which a branch about a foot in diameter was hanging by a stout slab. The break was about fifteen feet from the ground, and there were no other branches at that point. When I had climbed the tree, I found that the split-end of the branch made a good platform to stand on, and, after figuring out the situation, I decided that the easiest way to do the trick would be to chop nearly through the connecting slab while standing where I was, and then get close to the trunk and finish the job by swinging the axe with one hand and clinging to the trunk with one arm. But I had forgotten that the sapwood of the beech gets brittle when it has been drying for a year, and I had not given more than half a dozen strokes before there was a sudden snap, and the excitement began. I hadn't time to think, so must have acted on instinct, or from reflex action. I grabbed at the trunk of the tree with both arms and both legs. I just splashed myself against it, while the axe went flying. But before I could get my brakes adjusted, I had slipped about six feet down, and the legs of my trousers and sweater had slipped about two feet up. And the bark of that old beech was rough--very rough. After coming to a stop, I surveyed the scene, and felt thankful that I was not mixed up with the axe and the big limb on the ground. Then I shinned down the rest of the distance with a chastened spirit and a sprained thumb.

While chopping the branch into stove-lengths I meditated much on the foolishness of what I had done, and felt properly ashamed of myself. If one of the boys had done such a thing, I would never have stopped laughing at him. And now I had done it myself. Oh, well, I have a suspicion that most men do things that are just as foolish, when no one is looking, and have the reputation of being wise and careful just because they escape and keep quiet about it. Sometimes I think that there is something in us that makes us try to do things that we know are foolish. It helps to keep us humble, if we are wise enough to learn the lesson. To-night I am feeling very humble. I don't think I should laugh, even if the baby took a spoonful of salt in mistake for granulated sugar. It is a mistake that might be made by any of us.

Whoever worked out the plan of planting young trees that is given by the Department of Forestry certainly knew what he was about. I doubt if it could be improved upon. Lifting a sod and turning it back kills all the grass and weeds around the seedling, and gives it a chance to get a good start. To-day I looked over the trees I planted in the spring, and found that they are all beautifully mulched. The little hollow from which the sod was taken, and in which the tree was planted served as a trap for the drifting leaves. Around each tree there is a mulch of packed leaves three or four inches deep, and the work could not have been done better by hand. I don't think they mentioned that result in the bulletin on Reforestation, so it came to me as a surprise which aroused my admiration. The trees should come through the winter safely with such protection, and the rotting leaves should furnish them with the food they need next spring. Of the thousand and eighty trees I planted, at least eight hundred came through the scorching summer safely, and I expect that they will make quite a showing next year. The pine suffered the most. Though I have always understood that walnuts are very delicate, I find that almost all of mine lived. I was also pleased to find that thousands of young maples got a good start this year because the cattle had been kept out of the woods. Little as they are, these seedlings help to keep the leaves from drifting, and it looks as if the sod that had made such headway before replanting was attempted will soon disappear. Next spring, if the Forestry Department is kind, and I am feeling equal to the task, I shall plant out a couple of thousand more young trees, and try to get at least five acres back to natural woods. Of course, I know there are plenty of wise people who will say that I am foolish to be planting out trees in the garden land of Ontario, instead of clearing away those that remain; but, as I told you in the first paragraph, I am now convinced that I am capable of any kind of foolishness. Still, there is a saving remnant of the people who believe that reforestation is a wise thing. I do not think I am making a mistake in casting in my lot with them.

First let me tell you how the whole thing started
(For I have seldom troubled you with rhyme),
I woke this morning feeling happy-hearted,
Lulled by the dreams of a supernal clime,
And ere the drowsy glamour had departed
I heard soft music, like an elfin chime;
It seemed as if the old house had begun
Like Memnon's statue to salute the sun.

An Indian Summer dawn of amber haze
Along the east was glowing luminous,
Ushering one of those Canadian days
Of rare perfection, warm and languorous,
That well deserve such mystic strains of praise
As still were rising faint, mysterious--
Although their source I sought in vain, until
I chanced to look upon the window-sill,

And there a child's harmonica was lying,
Just where the south wind on the reeds could blow;
It roused the music with its fitful sighing,
Æolian chords, sweet, tremulous, and low.
Finding what set the elfin music flying
"My lungs like Chanticleer began to crow."
Meanwhile the sun had risen, red as blood,
And poured its light, a ruby-tinted flood.

I tell all this because it made me vow
To weave the doings of the day in song,
From dawn till dark, as I am doing now;
Jotting down verses as I go along,
Hoping some Muse will with her charm endow
The flying fancies to my brain that throng.
Whether it is worth the doing we shall see,
For I shall give you what the gods give me.

The fire was blazing and I started calling
The little sleepers, and the morning noise
Began at once, with giggling, tickling, squalling,
Laughing, romping, yelling, such as boys
And girls delight in. Now, there's some one bawling!
'Tis sweet domestic music, but it cloys!
I think I'll do the chores and 'scape the pother
And leave the task of dressing to their mother.

The air is frosty, but a south wind purrs
Across my ears, and though all else is still
A flock of sparrows in a spruce confers
With much politic chirping. Now a mill
Blows its loud whistle and the world bestirs
Itself to work, of which it has its fill.
(Although of work I am not quite a hater,
I'll have some things to say about it later.)

The Collie greets me, romping wildly round,
Barking and fawning for his morning petting;
The gobblers gobble (joyous Christmas sound),
"Their little hour" so proudly strutting, fretting;
The roosters cluck, some muddy titbit found,
Each for his dames an early breakfast getting;
The driver whinnies and the lonesome calf
Bawls with a peevishness that makes me laugh.

I feed them all and then, the milking done,
Go in to breakfast with an appetite
For eggs and bacon, that I feast upon
With earthly, unpoetical delight.
When satisfied, the day's work is begun--
Winter is coming, all things must be right--
And though the day is fine I still remember
To make due haste for it is now November.

Corn to haul in and stalks to bind and stack,
Potatoes and apples to be snugly pitted;
Of urgent work to-day there is no lack;
To every hour a needful task is fitted.
To honest labour I must bow my back,
But still that back is cheerfully submitted;
And what is more, if I could spare a minute,
I'd show you that there's philosophy in it.

Driving afield, the splendour of the day
Charms like a mighty masterpiece of art:
The fields and woods all stripped to sober grey,
The golden sunshine flooding every part.
Surely the hours will blithely slip away
And joy of life will throb in every heart--
So chants the poet, but the toiler knows
The world he works in is a world of prose.

All day with diligence that men applaud
I picked the golden ears and bore them in;
The world was fair, the south wind was abroad
Offering me joys I could not stop to win.
Yet was I well contented to defraud
My soul of all the beauty there had been;
This heavy price it is our fate to pay
To win our freedom for another day.

Poets there are who sing with frenzied passion
Of endless toil, who never felt its bane;
To call it glorious is now the fashion,
Drowning with song man's wretchedness and pain
My Pegasus I'll never lay the lash on,
Pursuing such a folly-bitten strain;
I say, and say it boldly to your face,
That needless labour is a foul disgrace.

Labour that knows the seedtime and its hope,
And waits the harvest with a trusting soul--
Strong in its faith with every ill to cope,
Trusting in God and his benign control--
Scorning the slavery in which they grope,
Blind and defeated, who make wealth their goal--
Such would I sing for he who looks may see
The end of labour is to make men free.

And being free, with clothing, food, and shelter,
What, that is toil-bought, would you envy more?
Why should you struggle in the human welter?
Why should you sink when you were meant to soar?
Life has been made a hurried helter-skelter
Of aimless effort without guiding lore.
Believe me, friend, though you have wealth past measure,
Living itself is life's completest treasure.

If some good people would but take the time
To look about them they would be surprised
To find their house of life is more sublime
Than poet ever feigned or sage surmised.
Stop and look forth! It will not be a crime!
And if you think I have not well advised--
Preferring some one who of toiling proses--
Back to the grindstone with your stupid noses.

Our fathers toiled, but in a glorious fight,
The God of nations led them by the hand,
With pillared smoke by day and fire by night
They wrought like heroes in their Promised Land;
The wilderness was conquered by their might,
They made for God the marvel he had planned--
A land of homes where toil could make men free,
The final masterpiece of Destiny.

How can I rest when they will not be still?
When every wind is vocal and their sighs
Breathe to my ear from every funeral hill
And from each field where one forgotten lies?
They haunt my steps and burden me until
I plead with hands outstretched and streaming eyes:
"I am not worthy! Let my lips be dumb!
The mighty song and singer yet shall come!"

The well-greaved Greeks and Priam's savage brood
Were not more worthy of immortal song
Than these in homespun, who alone withstood
Hunger and Fear to make our Freedom strong;
But till the singer comes, at least the good
They wrought we must from age to age prolong:
Learning from them, let this our watchword be:
Free from all tyrants from yourselves be free!

Well, I have wandered and the day is spent,
My morning vow forgotten and the throng
Of fancies vanished that I truly meant
To spread before you as I went along--
Showing what beauty with the day was blent--
Minting the gold of sunset into song--
Pouring my heart in rapture or in mirth--
Singing with pride the land that gave me birth.

But though I fail I shall not be ashamed;
My brothers of the fields will understand
The patriot ardour in my heart that flamed
And by what breath that sacred fire was fanned;
The blood still courses in our veins that tamed
The waste to fruitfulness at His command,
And ye all feel as I have felt to-day--
Born of this soil and kneaded of its clay.

_Nov. 25._--Is there such a thing as an official score-card for marking up the points of a cow? If there is I should like to see one. I want to know just how many marks are given for powers of digestion. This week the red cow did something that almost lifts her out of the cow class and places her with the ostrich and boa-constrictor. The other day after the cows had been turned out to water she was somehow left untied. True to her predatory instincts, as soon as she discovered her freedom she started to nose around for something she could steal and had the luck to find a tub full of corn in the ear, from which the hens were being fed. She promptly began to wrap herself around it and before being interrupted in her feast she had eaten over a bushel. Now, _The Farmer's Advocate_ has never published any "First Aid to the Gluttonous," and I didn't know what to do. When I asked for advice people told me sad stories of the death of cows from over-feeding. Some had been killed by eating tailings after a threshing, others by bloating after eating clover, others by a surfeit of chop feed. It was all very disheartening for a fresh cow that gives eight quarts of milk rich in butter-fat at each milking is a valuable asset in these days when the bank act is being revised so as to allow farmers to raise money on their cattle. I couldn't call up the veterinarian for we have no telephone, and with the roads in their present condition I did not feel like driving three miles to consult one. Still I was not so much worried as I might have been. The look in her eye was reassuring. She looked more like the cat that had eaten the canary than anything else. She wore an air of unmistakable satisfaction and when she began to eat some clover hay that was in her manger as dessert to her banquet I felt that she might pull through. Her previous raids on the swill-barrel, soft-soap, apples, and other things gave me confidence in her powers of digestion, so, after murmuring a few words, "more in sorrow than in anger," I gave her Shakespeare's blessing--"Let Good Digestion Wait on Appetite"--and left her to her fate.

At milking time she was still perfectly normal though kind of lazy about standing over and "histing." Acting on advice, I cut out her evening ration of unthreshed oats, so that her stomach would recover from the surprise she had given it in the afternoon. Her gastric juices had their work cut out for them without having their troubles increased. But she made no protest when the other cows were fed and she was skipped. In fact she reminded me of the bereaved fowl described by "Pet Marjory," the little girl whose rhymes and sayings were recorded by Sir Walter Scott:

"She was more than usual calm.
She did not give a single dam."

And yet, though she was in such good form I couldn't keep from worrying. All evening I listened to tales about cows that had come to untimely ends through over-eating, and look at it in any way I tried, a bushel or more of corn seemed a big dose for any cow. So after the others had gone to bed I lit the lantern and went out to the stable to see how she was doing. As I opened the door she heaved a sigh of repletion, like an alderman after a banquet. Then she stretched out her neck, brought up a cud, and began to chew placidly. Still, I was not entirely easy in my mind. If I could only get to see her tongue, or to feel her pulse, or take her temperature, I would be more satisfied. But how to get her to put out her tongue was the problem. The only way I could think of would be to hold an ear of corn before her nose and let her reach out her tongue for it, just as I had seen her try to lick grain through a knothole in the granary. But I was afraid to try that scheme for I knew by experience that she would probably get the start of me and add that ear of corn to the pile she had already accumulated. When it came to feeling her pulse I was stumped worse than in trying to get her to put out her tongue. How do you feel a cow's pulse anyway? The longer I live on a farm and grapple with its problems the more I find I have to learn. And all the time I was fussing and worrying she kept on contentedly chewing her cud. Restraining an impulse to give her a kick for looking so exasperatingly comfortable, when in the best judgment of the neighbourhood she should be dying, I closed the door and left her to her job of digesting a bushel of corn. And she did it to the king's taste. In the morning I went to see her before I gathered the duck eggs and found her bawling for her morning feed. She never batted an eyelid--never turned a hair. And at milking time she gave a brimming pail of milk, just as if nothing unusual had happened. Later in the day, when she was turned out for water, she bolted for the spot where she had found the corn on the previous day and seemed ready to repeat her exploit. It is not because she is starved either, for she is beef-fat.

DECEMBER

_Dec. 1._--Here is a chance for the Weather Bureau and the oldest inhabitant. In their records, real and imaginary, have they noted a first day of December like this? Last night there was a sharp still frost, but this morning the sun is shining "on both sides of the fence." A south wind that is balmy and yet has a tang to it like hard cider is dawdling over the fields. The day is perfect, and as I view it through the open window the typewriter becometh a burden. There is a haze in the air that makes the woods look dreamy and inviting. This seems to be a case of Indian summer lingering in the lap of winter, and nobody has the slightest objection to make. Those who work are still busy ploughing and getting ready for next summer's crops. Even the bees are out for an airing, and our Christmas dinners are in the woods filling their crops with beechnuts. Every once in a while I hear a shotgun banging, and know that a city hunter is scaring our corn-fed black squirrels. A couple of days ago one of these powder-burners fired seventeen shots at a squirrel on the beech knoll until the little animal got ashamed of being a party to such a rumpus and retired disdainfully into his hole. There doubtless are city hunters who can shoot, but they are not taking their holidays at present. Possibly the fellows who are tramping through the woods just now are doing it for their health, but, though they may work up excellent appetites, they will never be able to satisfy their hunger with the game they kill. Those I have had a chance to observe in action couldn't hit a "No Trespassing" sign at ten paces. The country boys say they couldn't hit a barn even if they were standing inside of it.

With the last roots and potatoes pitted and the cattle stabled the world is waiting for winter. The trees are stripped to bare poles, so that they may not be broken by clinging snow. It is interesting to note how much character the trees retain after they have parted with their foliage. The accustomed eye can pick out the elms, oaks, maples, beeches, and hickories as far as it can see, by their form and the distribution of their branches and twigs. Even where they are crowded together in the forest they are as easy to recognise as individuals in a crowd of people you know. Thoreau speaks somewhere of making friends with the trees, and to one who has been neighbouring with them for some months the idea is attractive. Just now it seems as if it would be easier to scrape an acquaintance with them than at any other time of the year. Although they look dignified and self-sufficient they are without the pride and pre-occupation of summer. It is in the winter that they perform for us their friendliest office in breaking the wind. The trees on the farm are the last thing we see when leaving home and the first thing we see on our return, so it is just possible many of us are friends with them without knowing it. Anyway, it is comfortable to be back among them after one has been away, whether they share the feeling or not.

Outside of the trees, about the only other things encountered on country walks just now that are of interest are the fences, and these are sufficiently varied to satisfy either an artist or an antiquary. Many of them are picturesque and all mark a stage in the development of the country. It is still possible to find examples of the stone, log, and stump fences of the pioneers which served the double purpose of bounding a field and clearing the land. The stone fences were built from necessity rather than choice. Something had to be done with the stones that were picked from the land in some districts, and the obvious thing to do was to throw them in the fence corners or make fences of them. The latter course was usually adopted where they were sufficiently plentiful. Stump fences were usually made of pine, and some may be found that are over fifty years old. When properly put together and blocked they made a fence that would turn the "breachiest" horse or cow that ever made life a burden to the farming community. But under no circumstances could a stump fence be considered ornamental. "As homely as a stump fence" is still a current simile in the country. As suggested above, the building of a stump fence served a double purpose. It was the same with the log fences that are now somewhat rare. They were made of such timber as would be used in building houses and barns. These fences were practically straight, the ends of the logs being connected and held together by short cross pieces, on which each tier rested. The rail fences that are still plentiful were made of free-splitting timber ranging from black ash to black walnut. It is probably some years since rails were split in any quantity, owing to the value of timber. As sound, well-seasoned rails will last almost a century, it is probable that they will be plentiful in the country for some time to come, though in some places the farmers are finding that they can sell their old rail fences for fuel at a price that will pay for wire fences. On the farms where rails are still in use many styles of fence are to be seen, varying from the stake-and-rider snake fence to straight fences with posts, to which the rails are fastened with wire. Almost every farmer has a scheme of his own to make his old rails go as far as possible, and the results are sometimes absurd. To make a fence that is horse high and hog proof with insufficient material requires more than ordinary ingenuity.

Board fences were once quite the fashion, but they have practically passed out because of the price of lumber. Wire fences of infinite variety are now being put up, but, judging from the criticisms of the farmers, the ideal fence has not yet been invented. Properly constructed wire fences are serviceable, but there are so many kinds of wire and so many ways of building them it is quite evident that there is still confusion in the public mind regarding them. Hedges have been tried in some parts--and thereby hangs a tale. Some years ago a number of smooth-talking agents went through the country taking orders for hedge fences at what seemed most reasonable terms. The finished hedge was to cost, say, one dollar a rod. It would attain its growth in three years, and the hedge-builders were to attend to it each year until it was completed. If the farmer agreed to buy fifty rods of hedge he was to pay for it in three instalments. On the first year he was to prepare the ground for the seedlings and pay $20. A second payment of $10 was to be made on the second year when the hedge-makers returned to replant any spots that had been missed. On the third year the hedge was to be trimmed, splashed, and completed and the farmer was to pay $20. It looked like a reasonable arrangement, and many farmers signed contracts for the new hedge. In the spring of the first year the hedge-makers appeared with waggonloads of seedlings, which they dropped in a furrow made by the farmer, who then covered them with another furrow. The job was just about as hard as planting a row of potatoes. The schemers then collected the first instalment. Next year they were prompt in calling for the second instalment and making the trifling additions to the planting that were required. The kind of thorn they had planted grew like Canada thistles, and the prospects of a good hedge looked promising. But on the third year the little joker in the scheme was discovered. Trimming, splashing, and completing the hedge meant work, and the hedge-makers never came back. They had already received two liberal payments for practically no work, and they took no interest in the last payment that would have to be more than earned. Because of this raid on the unsuspecting farmers, one sees occasional hedges that are forty feet high and still growing. Hedges will, doubtless, be used in the country as it grows older, but the man who undertakes to promote the industry will have to hit on a new scheme before he can make it popular.

A drive through the country at night is one of the dreariest experiences imaginable. Every house appears to be deserted. Not a light is to be seen anywhere. The front parts of many farm houses seem to be built for outward show, and not for inward use. Some of those who have the finest houses persist in living in their kitchens. The kitchen is also the dining room and living room. This no doubt saves fuel, but one cannot help wondering what is the use of having a parlour or sitting room with plush furniture, crayon portraits, and vases filled with dried flowers if it is never to be used. In the daytime the prospect is not much more alluring. A house that has smoke issuing from only one chimney does not look hospitable, but in most country houses they do not light a fire in the parlour unless they are expecting a call from the minister. All of which goes to prove the truth of the comment made by the Indian, who said: "Indian builds a hut and lives in it. White man builds a big house and lives in the kitchen." Moreover, in some cases the kitchen is simply an addition to the house proper, so that he really does not live in his big house at all.

_Dec. 5._--"Every man to his taste," as the old woman said when she kissed the cow. That good old maxim applies everywhere, even to the dumb creatures on the farm. I was reminded of it last night while doing the chores. While poking around with the lantern I came across the ducks--the waddling, fat, all-consuming ducks. They were resting and carrying on a light conversation in a sheltered corner where there was plenty of straw and where they had what most creatures would consider a chance to be comfortable. I did not disturb them in any way, but presently, after a few vigorous remarks, they started off in Indian file across the yard and out into "the great big dark." As they were nowhere in sight when I had finished my chores, I had the curiosity to hunt them up. Following the direction they had taken when leaving the yard, I soon found them in an old creek bed. They were huddled together on the ice, with their heads tucked under their wings, and apparently settled for the night. On telling of this when I got to the house, I found that this little pond has been their roosting place at night ever since they deserted the indignant hen that mothered them. They even kept a hole open in the middle of the pond until the frost became altogether too severe. I have often seen the wild ducks flying from the Niagara River out across the ice into Lake Ontario, and have been told that they were going out to roost, or sleep, or whatever it is that ducks do on the open water. Probably our hand-raised ducks are acting in obedience to some ancestral instinct. I wonder if I ought to try to break them off it? As a matter of fact, I have never looked into the question of how to raise ducks, having always contented myself with the instructions given in the cook book on "how to carve ducks."

Those ducks will never know how near they were to a general slaughter one day last week. I was working at the barn when some one at the house called a question to me. Before it was half finished, six ducks flapped their wings, drew deep breaths, and spontaneously exploded with a "quack," "quack," "quack!" When they had quieted, I tried to ask what was wanted, but this was about the way my question reached the house:

"What do you--'quack,' 'quack'--"

Then a noise might have been heard from the barn yard which sounded something like this:

"Get out of that, you waddling--'quack'--'quack'--'quack.'

"If I had a stick I'd--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'

"Shut up, you--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack'--"

"Oh, what's the use--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'"

Then as I started to the house to find out what was wanted of me, those ducks quacked as exultingly and flapped their wings as foolishly as a political party that has managed to howl down its opponents in debate. And I have no doubt that it is that victory they jabber to one another about every time I go to the barn, but they'll not enjoy their triumph long. They are eating their heads off every day, and presently we will all get together and eat their bodies off. "Quack!" "Quack!" "Quack!"----He quacks best who quacks last.

This morning, while sawing wood with a bucksaw, I began to remember vaguely that when I was a boy we had a playful name of some kind for this convenient implement, but, do my best, I could not remember it. As some one has said, the name "kept tickling my memory with the tip of its tail," but I couldn't catch it. I tried to get it back by every system of association of ideas that I could think of, but they were all of no use. I tried to recall every kind of work that a bucksaw can be used for in the hope that that would suggest the name, but I failed. Naming over the alphabet slowly, and thinking of as many familiar words as possible, beginning with each letter, failed to locate also. Of course, I knew it was of no importance, but when one starts his mind working on even a foolish problem it is hard to stop. That missing name bothered me for a couple of hours before something more important drove it out of my mind. And along in the afternoon, when I was looking up something in the encyclopædia, the name popped into my head with surprising suddenness. "Corporation Fiddle!" Have you ever heard it? That is what all the boys called a bucksaw when I went to school. I wonder why. Nowadays if I were going to call anything a "corporation fiddle" I would probably apply the name to some great newspaper, for I have noticed that the corporations generally manage to play whatever tunes they please on them. But in boyhood days the village or town corporation was the only one heard of. I wonder if it was ever the custom to sentence tramps to saw wood for the jail or town hall, and that the name "corporation fiddle" originated in that way. I seem to have heard some explanation of this kind long ago. But, now that the name has come back to me, I feel that we should find a use for it. Most of our leading papers proudly proclaim themselves "party organs." Would it be a good idea to name those that serve the Big Interests "Corporation Fiddles"? It sounds satisfying to me. I wonder which one we should apply it to first?

A good-natured correspondent writes that he wishes he could drop in on me or that I could drop in on him, so that we could have a good talk. I wish we could. He says he is tired of talking about fat steers and the price of hogs and such things. How can that be? I can't get any one who is skilled in those subjects to talk to me about them. They do not seem to take my views on the proper feeding of steers and hogs seriously. It is quite true I have no steers or hogs, but is that any reason why I should not have opinions? Still, though the real farmers refuse to take me into fellowship on these matters, I have no hard feelings. I have my own way of getting even. For instance, I do not take their political opinions seriously. Honestly, I do not think there is anything funnier in life than watching people acquire views on a public question. If the question is one that comes up unexpectedly, the caution of the people is something wonderful. They frown and shake their heads and appear to be thinking with both lobes of their brains. But wild horses could not drag an opinion out of them. They must think and think. Then some fine morning the party organ or "corporation fiddle" they patronise comes out with its opinions. Now, behold the change! Thinking has stopped and talking has commenced. All the fogs have cleared away and they have settled opinions on the troublesome question. They know just what should be done. Yes, indeed, and their fathers before them knew just what should be done, and any one who doesn't agree with them is more kinds of a fool than they could mention in half a day. To save my peace of mind, I agree with them entirely, whatever their views may be. Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that their views on public questions are no more worthy of respect than my disrespected opinions on fat steers.

_Dec. 9._--Long winter evenings are a reality in the country. At this time of the year they begin about 5 o'clock and last while the lamp holds out to burn. How to put them in without yawning one's head off is something of a problem. The children no longer tallow their boots in the evening so that they will be warm on the next day. No, indeed! They must have overshoes, so that they can make themselves felt in the family by wearing out two pairs of shoes at the same time. As no teaming is done, it is seldom that there is any harness to be patched, and whittling wooden spiles to be ready for the sugar-making in the spring passed out of vogue at least a generation ago. Of course they have papers to read--loads of them, from the local weekly with its neighbourhood news to the city daily with fiery cables about the Budget. There is material in them for all kinds of talk from gossip to philosophising. But the average man can't read and talk for five mortal hours at a stretch with any degree of satisfaction. This leads the observer to regret that the art of sitting before the fire and twiddling one's thumbs has also gone out of fashion in these days of strenuosity. It is pleasant to remember the old-timers who used to sit before the open fireplaces twiddling their thumbs and staring at the coals. Being ignorant of "the three r's," except perhaps enough arithmetic to enable them to keep track of their money, they were unable to feed their minds with the latest sensational news. They therefore sat and twiddled their thumbs; but let no one despise this seemingly futile occupation. One of the shrewdest critics of life known to modern times asserted that "doing nothing is the hardest and most intellectual of all occupations." It was among such that Whitman found his "great uneducated" men, and Touchstone his "natural philosopher," who knew that "the more one sickens the worse at ease he is, and he that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet and of fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun." Where is one to find such men now? Packed full of information of all kinds by their favourite newspapers, even the humblest can "profess apprehension" and have opinions on all manner of subjects.

If Canada should produce a Burns among its multitude of poets and he tried to do a "Farmer's Saturday Night" he would be forced to go at it somewhat in this fashion:--

The honest farmer, when his chores are done.
Pulls off his boots and sits beside the fire;
Toasteth his toes and holdeth forth upon
The little things that have aroused his ire.
He mourneth for the men he used to hire--
Great brawny giants, who would work all day,
Then do the chores and never loaf or tire--
And wait a year at least to get their pay.
Thus peevishly he frets and wears the night away.

Or else he takes his weekly paper down
And reads it--even the editorial page;
Talks of the wicked things they do in town,
Where financiers in pirate schemes engage.
Or works himself into a sputtering rage
About the things that politicians do,
Disgracing both their country and the age--
Believing all he reads as being true.
O _Globe_, and _Mail_, I fear some things are "up to you."

Their homework done, the children from the loft
Bring down the nuts and have their nightly feed;
The noise they make their mother chideth oft,
To which, alas, they give but little heed.
Then rings the telephone, and you may read
On Jenny's cheek the old, eternal tale--
She answereth it with startled, nimble speed,
Feigneth surprise and striveth hard to veil
The converse that she hath with some adoring male.

Somehow the telephone doesn't seem to harmonise with words ending in "eth." The future Burns will be wise to choose some measure more tripping and up-to-date than the stately and rumbling Spenserian stanza.

Do the quail and black squirrels keep posted on the game laws and know when it is safe to appear in public? Kipling says that the wild elephants know to a day when the hunting season ends, and celebrate the occasion with a dance. Our wild game must have knowledge of the same kind. All summer and fall I saw but two flocks of quail, and I wouldn't have seen them if I hadn't happened to walk right among them. Since the shooting season closed I can't cross a field without scaring up a flock, and "their tameness is fearful to me." The black squirrels are positively impudent when one goes walking through the woods. Since the snow fell, rabbit tracks are to be seen everywhere, but the rabbits themselves manage to keep out of sight. They are not protected by the game laws; at least that is the belief in the country, and they are liable to be potted at any time. Some boys not more than a hundred miles from here have been trying to snare rabbits. So far, they have managed to snare two cats and a pullet without disastrous results to any of the victims. Having snares out is strongly recommended to distracted mothers as a means of getting schoolboys quickly dressed in the morning. The snares must be visited just at daylight, and a normal boy can be warranted to jump out of bed and into all his clothes in less than five minutes if he wants to visit them. Apparently, it does no harm to the rabbits, so you must not accuse the boys of cruelty. The cats need exercise anyway, and no doubt a copper wire snare can give the huskiest tom cat a busy five minutes that will work up an appetite for his breakfast.

_Dec. 14._--No matter what happens, we have had a spell of old-fashioned winter. The January thaw may come and be followed by open weather, as so many are prophesying, but we have had sleighing and everything else worth while that winter can offer. First we had a week of cold weather ranging from zero to twenty above. Every day it was cloudy and threatening snow, and enough fell to cover the ground. Then the papers predicted a warm wave and the trouble began. On the morning when the change was due snow began to fall in big flakes, and there was a moderate wind from the south-west. While there was no thawing the snow was soft enough to stick to everything it touched, and soon the buildings, fences, and tree trunks were white with it. I was driving along the road when the change came. Without a moment's warning the wind began to blow a hurricane from the north, and the temperature must have fallen ten degrees in less than a minute. Under the lashing of the wind the snow on the ground rose in blinding drifts. The driver was brought almost to a standstill by the force of the wind. The robe was nearly whisked off my knees, and a loose corner of the curtain on the buggy top flapped and snapped with a sound like pistol shots. For half an hour the air was a smother of drifting and falling snow. All the while the wind steadily increased in violence, then it died down as suddenly as it came, and the sky cleared. The mercury had fallen to eight above zero, and it stayed there. All afternoon the weather continued about the same, with occasional flurries of dry, powdery snow, but at nightfall it began to snow in earnest. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and the fine, dry snow came down as quietly as a mist. It covered everything. It rested on all the branches of the trees, and even on the little twigs. On the following morning there was a blanket of snow four inches deep, and big, glittering frost-flakes were sifting down from an almost cloudless sky. The thermometer registered two above zero, and it was an ideal morning to take out the cutter. While driving to school to the music of bells it was almost impossible to look towards the sun, everything was so blinding white. But everything was beautiful. The distant woods were picked out in white and brown, and every weed, thistle, and stalk of grass was fluffy with snow. There was a little white cap on every fence post, and here and there the snow rested on the wires, the air was so still. The stillness, hardly broken by a sound, continued all day. The snow rested where it fell, feathery light and sparkling like diamond dust. The sun went down through a cold, coppery haze. It had been a perfect winter day. About eight o'clock the mercury suddenly began to fall, and kept on going down until it touched six below. In the still, glistening moonlight the world was a frozen fairyland. Then the sky clouded over, and the weather began to moderate. Since then we have had moderate temperatures, ranging from ten above to twenty-eight, and the sleighing has been of the best. There have been cutter-rides both by night and by day, snowballing, sliding on the government drain, and such coasting as an almost flat country affords. No matter what the future has in store for us, we have had a taste of the best that a Canadian winter can give.

One night when it was too beautiful for one to be indoors there was a walk across the still fields to visit a neighbour. The full moon was swinging up in the east, and there were more stars sparkling underfoot than overhead. The snow was so light that it was kicked aside at every step without being felt. The light wind that was stirring from the west was so cold that it made the nostrils sting and frost gathered even on our eyelashes. Though the fields were white and the moon was shining the shadows under the trees and behind every tuft of grass or weed were dead black. Sleigh-bells could be heard in the distance, and every now and then a gust of laughter and young voices singing would be wafted to our ears. An owl was hooting dismally in the woods, and the sound echoed away until it was lost in the distance. After a brisk walk we were soon warming ourselves beside a roaring wood fire, and the talk began about pioneer days. "A sad tale's best for winter," and there is always sadness in the stories of the old days. As I listened, the impression that grew on me was of heart-breaking isolation and homesickness, and the stifling, imprisoning wilderness. Though the pioneers hewed out homes for themselves, Canada was never their home. Their true homes were in the lands from which they came and to which they never returned. To us who were born to inherit what they won Canada is a true home, and it is hard for us to realise what they felt in the long years it took to transform the wilderness to one of the garden spots of the world. The struggles and weariness and heartache of the pioneers are to me a tale of never-ending interest. They toiled and walked apart from the world, fretted over the past and hoped for the future, but--

"This, all this, was in the olden
Time long ago."

While the talk progressed there were apples and winter pears to eat, and then came the walk home through the frosty moonlight, with the snow crunching faintly underfoot. On the road we met others who had been lured away to neighbourly visits by the beauty of the night, and it was good to feel that, instead of killing sociability, the winter weather had really aroused it to more activity. Winter weather and winter pleasures at their best are very good.

_Dec. 17._--A few nights ago the boys were testing their skates, and the familiar ringing sound seemed good in the frosty moonlight. And yet it was sporting under difficulties. All the ice they had to practise on was a frozen puddle about three rods long and a rod wide. As a matter of fact, skating, like everything else, has moved to town. I can remember when we had whole fields for skating ponds, but that was before the days of government drains and underdrainage. Now there are very few ponds or swamps left, and skating is no longer a country sport, except in specially-favoured localities. But every town and practically every village has its skating rink, where they hold carnivals on the solid ice in the winter time, and political meetings in the summer, when statesmen skate on thin ice. Of course, I am not regretting the fact that the country is too well drained for skating. I am merely noting the fact that this change has taken place, and I am afraid that skating is not the only sport that is lost to us. Baseball also seems to have retreated to the cities and towns, and hockey has taken the place of shinny, and is played almost entirely on the town rinks. But there may be another reason for this. Where could a boy find a shinny stick nowadays? The average woodlot in which cattle have been pasturing hasn't a stick left in it that is under thirty or forty years old. It is getting rather hard for country boys and girls to have fun of any kind without going to town for it and paying an admission fee. This may not seem of much importance to serious-minded people, but I am inclined to think it is very important. Most of us like to remember the homes of our childhood by the games we played in them, and to have no games is to have fewer ties binding the children to the land. I am afraid the country is getting altogether too practical and joyless. In the big cities they now have "play-masters," who teach the children how to play in the parks and vacant lots, and it has been found that they work better and behave better because of the good times they have. It seems to me that something should be done in the schools to interest the children in suitable sports that will take the place of those that made life richer for their fathers and mothers.

_Dec. 26._--"The country looks just like a Christmas card," said an enthusiast of city breeding, which goes to prove the truth of Whistler's observation that "Nature is looking up." The sleighing came with Christmas and made it perfect. There had been flurries of snow before that had drifted to the hollows and fence-corners, and had given the country a sketchy, unfinished look, but on Christmas morning the fields and roads were covered several inches deep with an even layer of crisp snow. Cutters were dusted and brought out, and before noon there was a constant jingling of bells on the country roads. Ever since there has been good sleighing, and holiday visiting has been worth while, if for no other reason than the drive through the clear, cold air. Even the turkeys and mince-pies and plum-puddings seemed to taste better after an appetising outing with the thermometer at fifteen above. Since the sleighing began the towns have been crowded with visitors from the farms, who were out more for the drive than for any shopping they had to do. As a matter of fact, sleighing is now simply one of the pleasures of the country. There is no more heavy teaming to do, and really practical farmers who look at things from a business point of view would be just as well pleased if we did not have sleighing at all. As long as there is enough snow to protect the wheat they are satisfied. Sleighing makes it necessary to have sleighs and cutters instead of waggons and buggies, and that is an added expense. Thank heaven, there are still enough inconsequential people living to like sleighing just for the fun of it. They hitch up their roadsters and go out for a spin because they like to feel the exhilaration it gives. May their tribe increase.

As if not satisfied with giving us perfect winter weather, Nature started in yesterday afternoon to show what she can do, when in the mood, to make the world bewilderingly beautiful. Early in the afternoon, wisps of fog began to float across the field and the raw cold proved the truth of the old doggerel:

"A winter fog
Will freeze a dog."

As the fog floated past a fine hoarfrost began to settle everywhere and the sun went down red as in Indian summer. The straggling fog-banks on the horizon began to glow, and we said:

"The low, red rim
Of a winter's twilight, crisp and dim."